


First Impressions Can Be Tough (And When I Saw You, I Knew It)

by blueskypenguin



Series: Steric Effects [1]
Category: Star Trek, Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fusion, F/M, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-22
Updated: 2013-05-22
Packaged: 2017-12-12 15:22:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,416
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/813062
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blueskypenguin/pseuds/blueskypenguin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Gamma shift is boring, but considering it’s the ship’s equivalent of the middle of the night, it’s no surprise. Whenever Ensign Stilinski finds himself on gamma shift at the helm of the USS Canis Major, he passes the time by following the space opera drama of his bridgemates’ lives.</p>
            </blockquote>





	First Impressions Can Be Tough (And When I Saw You, I Knew It)

**Author's Note:**

> Title of this part is from a lyric in Hairspray. The title of the series is an in-joke because I'm a scientist and it amuses me. This was going to be a cross-over big bang but I got distracted and decided to break it down into a series instead.

Stiles is bored. In fact, Stiles is beyond bored, and as a result is considering taking the inventor of gamma shift to Federation tribunal for crimes against humanity, assaulting a commissioned officer of Starfleet, and the use of psychological warfare against Federation citizens. 

He’s not entirely sure those are all genuine offenses, and he’s almost certain no-one actually _invented_ the gamma shift - which is basically a night shift, and so as Stiles understands it, it’s just the application of round-the-clock military readiness which has been common sense since mankind had something to protect, but he’d bet it was a Roman who turned it into a tripartite system of shift-work and -

He checks the chronometer; he’s been at his station for a grand total of thirty-eight minutes. His devolution into completely random trains of thought has struck a new record for USS Canis Major’s gamma shift and he’s only been here for three months.

Stiles knows he should be grateful, and he is, really. He’s not only a newly minted Ensign, but he’s a seventeen-year-old Ensign and the youngest commissioned officer to have gone through the Academy in the history of Starfleet to boot - no mean feat considering the dearth of officers in the wake of the Vulcan Massacre which claimed a majority of the Academy’s intake a few years back. He’s a child prodigy even if his attention can be a little flighty, but he fought hard to earn a place as bridge-crew on the newest deep-space exploratory starship. Most XOs would have scheduled him into permanent beta and gamma shifts where he could do as little damage as possible and learn the ropes in a relatively crisis-free environment.

(It was like deep space knew when ship-board ‘day-time’ was; it was insane. He could count on his hands the number of times in the last seven months the USS Canis Major had been accosted, dropped out of warp or had engine problems between 1600 and 0800. Sadly the same could not be said for the alpha shift.)

Commander Morrell was different; Stiles would worship her if she didn’t creep him out just a little too much. She’d helped the captain pick the bridge crew and had offered him the position personally, and Stiles had been so pathetically relieved to know he’d gotten his choice assignment aboard the ship that he’d almost missed the key words: _three alpha shifts per week rotation_. 

Three alpha shifts, to an Ensign with no experience and a tendency to talk _way_ too much, and who couldn’t even buy beer on most Federation planets yet. 

The Commander had simply smiled that weirdly enigmatic half-smile and warned him he’d still have two gamma shifts and a beta shift, and she’d put him on call for an additional beta shift mid-week depending on the status of the crew complement and something about adjustments for extended periods at emergency stations, blah, blah.

Alright, so he’d essentially tuned out after he’d mentally mapped his seven-day duty rotation and since he knew all pertinent details would be included in his orders, delivered to his PADD, he figured he might not get reassigned on the spot. He has a feeling Commander Morrell knew he wasn’t paying attention but hadn’t seemed to put out by it, so she’d clearly been forewarned on what to expect from one Ensign [Redacted] ‘Stiles’ Stilinski.

He’d bet it was Admiral Deaton. He’d always struck Stiles as a secretive bastard and he’d presided over Stiles’ Kobyashi Maru exam with the same little half-smile that he’d forever associate with _oddness_.

But that was probably because Stiles’ doomed solution of choice had been decidedly _odd_ too.

_Odd_ tends to follow Stiles around like a particularly needy puppy, one of those yapping little things that snaps at his heels and shits all over his furniture.

Stiles cocks his head and wishes he’d had a coffee before coming on-shift; that figurative puppy scenario made no sense whatsoever.

“Something wrong?”

He shrugs and doesn’t even bother to look over to his partner and pilot in helm-crime. He continues to stare blindly at the depolarised viewscreen. “I made a particularly troubling comparison involving my life, an Admiral and puppy, and it got away from me just a little..”

“Only a little?” Lt. Argent was now no stranger to the strange tangents of Stiles’ brain. “It wasn’t Admiral Archer, was it? Because you know if you mention that beagle to Lt. Commander Mahealani again, he’ll pull that sad, betrayed face. I never need to see that face again, Stiles.”

He turns in his chair, horror-struck. “You made him _frown_?”

This unintentionally opened up the flood-gates of the gamma-shift bridge-crew. Stiles was sure they just waited for him to break under the strain of the silence and _ping_ ing before starting the type of conversation which only the wee hours of the morning can bring. 

Oh god, the _ping_ ing. It was a call to arms for the crazy.

Lieutenant Martin had command of the bridge on Tuesday’s gamma shift, and Stiles would probably worship her too, if she couldn’t kill him in an improbable number of ways - and could tell him each one in detail in an equally improbable number of languages. Stiles is beginning to see a pattern in his approach to his female colleagues. (The less said about Lt. Allison Argent’s hand-to-hand skills and proficiency with sharp, pointy things the better.)

“I didn’t know Danny possessed the facial muscles required for frowning,” offers Lt. Martin, and Stiles uses his unfortunately detailed knowledge of anatomy to picture it. He instantly wishes he hadn’t, because then he pictures Lt. Cmdr. Daniel ‘ _Just call me Danny and hand me that damn compression coil would you?_ ’ Mahealani, their Chief Engineer, as Deadpool and he really doesn’t need any more encouragement to get distracted at his post by his collection of millennium-era digitally-converted graphic novels.

His interests are many and varied, and his brain is a bottomless repository powered by caffeine and the occasional dopaminergic mood stabiliser.

He shudders and comments aloud, “I really, really shouldn’t engage my brain sometimes.”

“It’s only your mouth we have a problem with, Ensign,” replies Lt. Martin, and when Stiles turns his chair to face her, he sees her mischievous smile.

In his first month on board, when he was still a little tentative around the more relaxed atmosphere of gamma shift, he’d have taken that kind of banter rather badly. He had, in fact, faced a few of Lieutenant Commander Whittemore’s more choice comments on Wednesday’s gamma with uncharacteristic silence or limited acknowledgement (light years away from how he’d faced snide criticism from his peers at the Academy). He’d not been willing to make waves with the head of ship security, even if his variations on ‘ _yes, sir_ ’ had been getting a little terse. Once Lt. Martin had pointed out as kindly as she ever did that, “The Commander would ignore you if he thought you were useless; you just need to get better at reading people, kid,” Stiles had relaxed and started to give back as good as he got.

As it turns out, Commander Whittemore isn’t too bad once you prove you aren’t a push-over.

Whittemore _hates_ push-overs.

There are a hundred comments he wants to make to Lt. Martin about the lack of problems some people would have with his mouth, but being still on duty means there is a line not to be crossed; sexual innuendo from a barely-legal Ensign is well past the imaginary line. Plus, he’d like to continue to trade on the misconception most of the crew have about his virginal naivety. 

It’s pretty damn hilarious.

And Lt. Martin knows it, so he just stares innocently back at her and watches the smirk spread across her lips.

Allison leans over from her station, and when she speaks in a sly undertone, Stiles wonders how he managed to surround himself with kick-ass, terrifying, mind-reading women. “Cat got your tongue there, Stiles?” 

“Puppy,” Stiles corrects with a wagged finger, “But I’ve forgotten whatever thought process I was having, so it doesn’t matter.”

He turns back to his station and minutely adjusts course for the gravitational waves of a nearby pulsar coming into range on the starboard side a few light-years ahead. It’s about as exciting as most gamma shifts get.

Lt. Martin scoffs, “I thought you remembered everything, kid?”

The turbolift doors open with a pressurised hiss and Stiles’ need to be nosy is thwarted by the non-reflective transparent aluminium surfaces from which all Federation starship control interfaces are fashioned. He replies without turning around and just hopes that if it happens to be a superior officer, his answer is suitably respectful. “I may be a genius, Lieutenant, but I don’t have an eidetic memory and if I did, I’d rather not waste it on remembering whatever fanciful leap brought me to this discussion.”

When there is a pregnant pause, Stiles considers the possibility that the universe really is out to get him, and he looks down at his gold shirt in desperate hope; he’s too young to die.

“If you had an eidetic memory, you wouldn’t have a choice,” Lt. Martin responds.

Stiles relaxes minutely, “Point proven, and in that case I’ll consider myself blessed, Lieutenant.” He turns his chair to see who had joined them on the bridge. 

Commander Whittemore is leaning on the brace-barrier which separates the support stations from the command chair and helm, his weight on his forearms. He’s off-duty but still in uniform - the captain insists on uniform only on the bridge except in cases of dire emergency or unavoidable rending of garments - and seems surprisingly genial for a man who has just pulled a double shift and has only 16 hours to recover before his next. Then again, Commander Whittemore is engaged in what he believes to be a very subtle and patient game cat-and-mouse with Lieutenant Martin, but has misconceptions about which role he’s playing.

Stiles knows. Lt. Martin knows. Hell, Stiles would bet the entire crew knows that Lieutenant Martin is the cat to Commander Whittemore’s mouse, but Whittemore has a twist of conscience by which he can’t just man up and act on his tragically obvious feelings due to their difference in rank, and Martin is too much of a stone-cold bitch with a princess complex, wanting to be chased.

It was moments like this which got him through most gamma shifts, and he was definitely getting better at _reading people_.

He twists his chair back around to face his panel and opens a separate window to work on his template for improvements to the automated course-correction algorithm; it’s work-appropriate but also doesn’t require much of his brain-power and leaves him able to eavesdrop.

He’s shameless, but he’s also _bored_.

==

The only difference between Tuesday’s gamma and Wednesday’s gamma is that Commander Whittemore is officially on duty, not just hanging around Lieutenant Martin.

The communications officer doesn’t make an appearance as she’s on alpha shift at 0800, and instead Whittemore’s puppy makes a brief appearance. It just about makes Lt. Argent’s night, because for some insane reason, she’s crushing on the asthmatic crewman, and it definitely brightens Stiles’ night because Ensign McCall is his closest friend on-board and has been since they were in the same group to report on day one, and both managed to get lost.

Spectacularly lost.

They ended up in Sickbay, for crying out loud.

Stiles shudders at the memory and makes a small manual course-correction. The ship’s doctor was less than impressed to say the least, and it sucks to have made a singularly terrible first impression like that under the circumstances - the circumstances being that Dr. Hale is gorgeous beyond belief.

Scott is mostly distracted by Allison, but before the Commander’s patience runs out and he’s kicked off the bridge, he promises to meet Stiles in Mess 3 for some food.

“Sounds like a cute play-date, Stilinski,” says Whittemore, sounding remarkably uninterested. When Stiles turns around, the Commander isn’t even looking up, he’s focussed on his PADD. Stiles supposes he’s just trying to make conversation, and Stiles can happily oblige.

“We’re going to braid each other’s hair and talk about boys,” he shares a glance with Allison and they smirk.

“What, no pillow fights?”

“Sorry to disappoint, sir,” smirks Stiles.

Whittemore is now smiling behind his PADD, “I’m heartbroken.”

The interruption Scott caused finally settles and they sink back into work. Stiles thinks his new course algorithm may be close to ready for a simulation down in the science labs but he’s got to get through to the end of the shift and his so-called playdate before he can even think of getting to the sims. 

The shift passes without incident which is as much a blessing as a curse, and the ship’s chronometer ticks soundlessly closer to the hand-over. Sure enough, six minutes before 0800, the first of the alpha shift bridge crew arrives to relieve the gamma personnel: Commander Morrell. She has a low conversation with Whittemore, and takes his place. Allison’s relief at the helm, Ensign Reyes, takes her place. “See you in the mess, Stiles,” Allison leaves the bridge to get her breakfast.

“Hot date and you didn’t invite me, Stilinski?” Reyes bats her eyelashes with exaggerated flirtiness as she takes up her duties.

“Any time you like, Reyes, just say the word,” replies Stiles, imitating her as usual, because this is just how their mornings start. Her relationship with Lt. Boyd is well-known and as rock-solid as it is incomprehensible, and her flirting is empty banter. He turns to see if Isaac has arrived yet to relieve him, but it wouldn’t seem so. Lt. Boyd is at his communications post, and Lt. Martin is at the science station. He’s the last of the gamma shift on the bridge as the 0800 mark passes, and of the alpha shift they’re only waiting on the captain.

Commander Morrell is in his chair, and it would seem Ensign Lahey is la-ate. 

Turning back to his station, Stiles just gets on with his duties at navigation as he’s expected to do, and waits.

When Morrell is in the chair, the bridge is always a little quieter than with the captain, who encourages a more relaxed atmosphere within the confines of duty. Stiles enjoys his time on alpha shift with the primary bridge crew more than gamma most days; the captain has taken a shine to Stiles and while he can’t run his mouth off like he would on gamma shift, he doesn’t have to stay silent the whole time.

It’s 0830 and Isaac still hasn’t showed, and while Reyes is giving him the side eye - he isn’t meant to be on alpha today, it’s Wednesday and he should be having breakfast, sleeping, and then pulling beta shift tonight - Morrell has yet to say a word. 

This is cutting into his mess-time. It’s cutting into his rack-time.

As if mind-reading, and oh god, that would be horrific, Morrell addresses him directly. “Ensign Stilinski, I’m sorry but it looks like you’re pulling over-time,” Morrell doesn’t even sound apologetic (not that he’d expect her to), just distracted. “Consider yourself switched from beta to alpha today.”

“Yes, sir,” and if it means Stiles has to pull this alpha shift rather than the more boring beta shift later, Issac can stay wherever he’s gotten to (so long as it’s not life-threatening).

The explanation for Isaac’s absence arrives at 1330, when Stiles returns to the bridge after a short break to use the little officers’ room and shovel a quick snack down his throat. The turbolift doors hiss open and he makes haste to relieve the Crewman manning his station. Either he’s completely ignored the captain on his way in, or he’s too engrossed in checking their position and vectors to notice the turbolift opening again, but sure enough Commander Morrell has left the bridge in Stiles’ absence and Captain Hale is now in the chair.

“I appreciate you sticking around, Ensign Stilinski,” praises the captain. “Any word on what’s wrong with Ensign Lahey?”

Stiles does not jump. What he does, in fact, is turn his chair with a brief, jerky movement to re-settle himself comfortably at his post. “Not a problem, sir,” he says, though he’d been pretty damn hungry before that break at 1315, and he’s starting to feel the need for a nap. “And no, sorry sir.”

“Hm,” the captain picks up a PADD and Stiles turns back to navigation. There’s a soft tapping characteristic of the responsive surface. “Ah,” continues the captain after a moment. Stiles hears a click, then, “Doctor Hale, would you be so kind as to join me on the bridge?”

Stiles does not cringe, not even when Dr. Hale huffs at the captain down the internal comms and grudgingly replies that he’ll be along shortly, and “wasn’t my memo enough for you?” Stiles briefly wonders if the CMO is always this recalcitrant or if it’s just a lovely side-effect of his uncle being his commanding officer; then he remembers getting lost on the first day, and Dr. Hale’s scowling hazel eyes, and thinks perhaps the good doctor is just a massive grump regardless of familial affiliations.

It takes a few minutes, but sure enough the turbolift opens and Dr. Hale stalks onto the bridge, taking up a position by the side of the captain’s chair. “Is there really any need for me to have come all the way here?”

“I wanted,” Captain Hale replies crisply, “A chat.”

Stiles can just about see the pair’s reflections in the viewscreen, interrupted by the warp-warped stars around them. The doctor is glowering and the captain could not look more gleeful if he tried. It’s rather more funny than it should be, and oh god, Stiles can feel the giggle building in his lungs. He looks away from the dim reflections and back to his station, desperately trying to push his hysteria down..

“A chat,” repeats Dr. Hale.

“Yes, Doctor. I need to know if this stomach bug Lahey’s gone down with is going to cause me a problem.”

At his post, face hidden as it is from the rest of the crew due to his position being most-forward, cringes; stomach bugs doing the rounds on spaceships were miserable. Sure enough, “It’s a two-day stomach flu,” sighs Dr. Hale, and Stiles watches them again in the viewscreen. “I’ve had thirteen people report symptoms so far since yesterday and it’s over four departments. Lieutenant Jones in security picked it up during our drop-off at Starbase 11 last week and kept it to himself.”

“Oh joy,” murmurs the captain, flicking through messages on his PADD. “Alright, how bad?”

“It’s the full works,” which Stiles translates to mean misery at both ends, so _ew_ , “Quite infectious but not serious enough for level one quarantine.”

“So what you’re saying in your typically verbose manner is that we’re going to be fine?” 

The doctor nods reluctantly, still attempting to assassinate the captain by stare alone, “I said so in my message.”

“I do prefer to hear bad news in person, Doctor,” replies Hale with a smile. “Can we trust the crew with self-diagnosis and self-quarantine?”

“I don’t see why not,” the CMO’s tone suggests boredom but Stiles can see enough of his reflection to know that he’s tense and even looks concerned. From this perspective - like, not right up close with Doctor Hale glaring down at the Ensign and Crewman lost in his precious sickbay - Hale looks like a gruff mama bear. “Housecalls for anyone with underlying issues or who’s still sick after four days.” 

Captain Hale nods and suddenly looks up and directly ahead, catching Stiles’ eyes in the viewscreen. _Busted_ , Stiles thinks. “Ensign Stilinski, have you been paying attention to the doctor’s report?”

Stiles closes his eyes, steels himself, and then turns to face Captain and Doctor Hale. “Yes, sir.” The doctor is now glaring at Stiles instead of the captain, arms folded and looking thoroughly stern. Stiles’ impulse to giggle has most definitely dissipated. “Good. Begin ship-wide broadcast of the good doctor’s recommendations, if you please.”

“And don’t screw it up,” is the CMO’s parting shot as he turns on his heel and leaves the bridge. The captain sighs after him, rolling his eyes; Stiles pretends he doesn’t hear him mutter, “child,” under his breath and instead wonders how to appropriately phrase “ _it’s going to come out of both ends, suckers,_ ” to avoid incurring the wrath of both Hales.


End file.
